


Huckleberry

by filthy_rat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, PWP, so click away if that makes you uncomfortable!, the reader in this is cis female
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_rat/pseuds/filthy_rat
Summary: You're an underling working for Overwatch, a cog in the machine. Although most of the heroes know you by name, there's only one hero who gives you butterflies in your tummy whenever he looks your way: Jesse McCree. Read on and discover how the two of you become closer.





	Huckleberry

**Author's Note:**

> hey what don't look at me you decided to click on this

The heroes of Overwatch have always been people you could look up to. Tracer with her boundless energy and enthusiasm, Reinhardt with his boisterous laughter and strength, Winston with his quiet intelligence. You’re just an underling in the new task force, no one really important but a cog in the well-oiled machine that is Overwatch, but all of the heroes know you by name. You’ve been allowed on a few low-priority missions in the past, always paired with a more senior-ranking member of the team.

Once you and Torbjorn got caught in a blizzard while scouting Volskaya Industries. _That_ was an experience to remember.

Overwatch’s new headquarters have moved to Gibraltar, and there they have built a compound for all the people that live and work within the organization. There are individual dormitories, training rooms, a bar, and several research and reconnaissance stations. Anything an international task force could ever need.

On this particular evening, you want nothing more than a drink. But you’re going to get so much more.

You can feel his gaze following you from the moment you walk into the busy bar. You aren’t sure where exactly he skulks and watches you, but the bar is packed with patrons. The person whose eyes follow your every move might be anywhere amongst the throng. Your skin prickles as the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. As you approach the bartender to order a beer, your eyes make a sweep of the crowded room, but the familiar gangly silhouette is nowhere to be seen.

You don’t need to see him to know who it is that’s staring so intently. One Jesse McCree, gunslinger for hire. Recently, he has returned to the fold and now works for Overwatch.

He has to know you’ve been avoiding him ever since that recon mission in New Mexico, when it was just the two of you in the sweltering heat and scorching desert sun. The pair of you had made a sweep of the ruins dotting Route 66, inspecting every derelict building in search of supplies or intel or enemies. McCree had said little, to you or otherwise, and you had suspected that being here at his old stomping grounds was the cause of his long sullen silences. You hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered an explanation.

Eventually, the heat had got to him. Sweat beaded on his brow, cheeks ruddy from exertion, he eventually had shed his wool poncho. How could you have done anything but stare in appreciation as he removed the hat from his head, and dabbed at his shining forehead with a corner of his poncho? The shirt he wore beneath the chest plate was pale blue and checked with white squares. It fit him perfectly. His blue jeans beneath the leather chaps hugged the curve of his thighs and backside. God, what an attractive piece of man.

Your gaze had roamed over the circuitry and metal of his prosthetic, gleaming chrome catching the setting desert sun and momentarily blinding you. A thousand questions had burned in your mind, most of which too inappropriate to ever voice.

Unfortunately, he had noticed your ogling.

As you had turned sharply away, face growing warm from embarrassment, he had sauntered over to you, spurs jingling quietly with each step.

“Got somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?” he had asked with that deep growl to his voice that came from clenching the cigar between his teeth, and a little pleasurable shiver had erupted in goosebumps across your skin. You had pretended to check your gun’s magazine and refused to meet his gaze. “Couldn’t help but notice that you’re starin’.”

“I-I thought I saw something behind you,” you had said, only stammering a little. He hadn’t believed you, but he had thankfully dropped it.

Now, weeks later, and you still can’t look him in the eye. A fact that is becoming very much apparent to the rest of the team. He glances your way when you enter a room, smiles that cocky, lopsided smile, and you duck your head and scurry out like a startled mouse, the sounds of your comrades’ laughter following you. It is beyond mortification.

Today was bad. Your first real mission with the other heroes, and your team lost the payload to enemy forces, you were nearly shot in the head by Widowmaker, and then you were chastised thoroughly by Winston for your mistake. The only thing you want is to drown your sorrows in a cold drink. Preferably the kind with alcohol. As you motion to the omnic behind the bar for a glass, you hear the familiar jangle of spurs. You don’t need to look up to know who is approaching. The smell of his lit cigar precedes his presence by a few seconds.

“Evenin’,” says McCree casually, as he throws one leg over the barstool next to you and sits.

“Jesse, I’m really not in the mood,” you mutter, gratefully accepting the glass half-full of bourbon the bartender passes you. You down the drink in one go, and slide the now empty glass back across the bar, throat burning. “I’ve had a rough day and I’d like to drink the brain cells away in peace.”

McCree takes a long contemplative drag on his perpetually half-burned cigar, watching you as you down the bourbon shot in one gulp. His expression is hard to read, even for him. The master of the poker face. “…Y’wanna talk about it?”

By the time he speaks, the omnic has replaced your empty glass with a cold beer, and you pause with the bottle halfway to your lips. From the corner of your eye, you stare at him for a beat. “No.”

He lets out a wry chuckle, plucking the spent cigar from his lips and extinguishing it on his cybernetic arm. It leaves a sooty black mark on the chrome that he promptly brushes away. He meets your gaze, a downright smug smile curving his mouth, and drops the cigar butt in the nearby ashtray.

“C’mon, sweetheart, ain’t but a short walk away. I got some real good shit in my room, if’n you’re in a drinkin’ mood,” he adds, gesturing to your now half-empty bottle of beer.

For a moment, you consider the idea. You have to admit, the thought of being alone with McCree in his personal quarters with very strong alcohol is a tantalizing prospect. Judging from that mischievous twinkle in Jesse’s eye, he has more than just drinking in mind. A small thrill chases up your spine at the thought.

“Fine,” you say at last, feigning annoyance, and McCree’s smirk blossoms into a full grin. He looks so happy that you smile in spite of yourself. He swipes your half-empty beer, finishes it in one gulp, and gestures for you to follow. As the pair of you leave the crowded tavern, one of the patrons lets out a wolf whistle and the crowd erupts into raucous laughter. Before you can hesitate or respond to the taunting, McCree’s metal hand finds yours, and he pulls you out into the cool night air.

If the two of you pass by anyone on your way to his room, you’re too distracted to notice. The feel of his robotic hand in yours is too good of a sensation to ignore. Somehow the metal is warm to the touch, and you can feel the subtle whir of the mechanisms inside that allow for movement. The sudden thought of what he could do with such vibrations has your heart racing.

McCree leads you through the winding streets of Gibraltar, quickly leading you to nondescript door in a long line of identically nondescript doors. He waves a laminated ID card in front of the sensor light by the doorframe and the door whooshes open.

“After you,” says McCree, tipping his hat with another smirk, and gesturing into the room.

You slip past him and into the room as the automatic lights flickers to life. It’s sparsely furnished -- a bed, a desk, a loveseat, a TV stand, a dresser, a mini-fridge -- as most of the Overwatch dormitories tend to be, but this one is still overwhelmingly _McCree._ There’s a horseshoe nailed to the wall above the front door. A pair of jeans, still in the chaps, is draped over the chair left untucked from under the desk, which is covered with crumpled papers and a banjo. The mismatched sheets on his queen-sized bed are rumpled. There’s a spare red poncho tossed haphazardly over the ratty brown loveseat. You suspect it might’ve been used as a blanket during an impromptu drunk nap. There are empty beer and liquor bottles scattered about on almost every horizontal surface. The holoscreen television, which sparked to life upon your entrance, begins playing commercials for a local omnic night club and microwaveable meals popular with single men.

As McCree enters behind you, he places his wide-brimmed hat on a wall hook and runs his mechanical hand through his hair. You twitch the poncho on the loveseat aside and sit, watching Jesse expectantly.

With a sigh, he unwraps his poncho as he crosses the room, tossing it carelessly over the banjo atop his desk. Then he removes the chest plate and stuffs it into a drawer. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” he says, toeing off his boots and kicking them half-heartedly underneath his bed. You mimic him, removing your shoes and setting them out of the way. Your Overwatch uniform jacket comes next, and joins the pair of jeans on the back of the chair. The holoscreen is commanded to turn off and the room is silent.

From a dresser drawer, McCree produces a label-free green glass bottle with a cork stopper. Inside sloshes some mystery liquid. He places it on the coffee table in front of you. A moment later and he’s produced two tumblers, and seats himself beside you on the loveseat.

Suddenly very aware of his warm thigh pressing against yours, you uncork the bottle and give it an experimental whiff.

“Holy shit, I think that just burned my nose hair off,” you say with a wheeze, holding the bottle at arm’s length to protect your precious remaining nose hairs. Jesse chuckles as he plucks the bottle from your hand, and takes a swig. He barely even grimaces afterwards.

“And here I thought you was made of tougher stuff’n that, darlin’,” he says with a teasing wink, and pours whiskey into both empty tumblers. He replaces the cork in the bottle, and hands you one of the tumblers.

“Not all of us spend our time drowning in drink, Jesse,” you respond scathingly, and pretend not to see his amused smirk as you down your shot.

Several drinks later, and the burn of the whiskey is considerably less, and the bottle considerably emptier. You think perhaps the nerve endings in your throat are probably not going to recover in the foreseeable future. You and Jesse have been swapping jokes and funny stories, and now the pair of you are in quite the giddy mood.

“Shit,” sighs Jesse with a lopsided grin. “That’s about the funniest damn thing I ever heard. Zen really stuck two angry eyebrows on his face?”

Giggling, you finish the last of your whiskey and set the glass down. “Yes! He made stickers! Next morning, Tracer showed up with a bag of those stick-on googly eyes and Zenyatta _loved_ them!”

Both of you burst into a drunken, hysterical fit of giggles, leaning against one another for support as the laughter renders you both floppy. When the laughter finally dies, you slowly collect your breath, and become acutely aware just how close you the two of you are. Your hand is resting on his thigh just above his knee, and your heart skips a precious beat when you realize his arm has fallen from the back of the loveseat and is now draped around your shoulders. And he’s meeting your gaze, his eyes warm and his expression positively besotted. You suddenly feel dizzy and overly-warm.

“Um… I think that whiskey’s gone right through me,” you mumble with a nervous smile, pushing yourself away from his warm chest and standing on wobbly legs. “Bathroom?”

“Oh,” says Jesse, looking a little befuddled at your sudden departure, but he gestures to another door in the back of his room.

Head swimming with drink, you half-stumble your way to the bathroom. With the door closed, you turn the faucet on and splash your face and neck with icy water to clear your thoughts. Bracing yourself against the sink, you look your reflection in the eye and take a deep breath. You feel calmer. _Keep it together, it's just McCree._ As quietly as you can, you relieve yourself, wash your hands, and step towards the door.

When it whooshes open, McCree is leaning -- as casually as one can when tipsy -- against the door frame and with a yelp, you jump back in surprise.

He cracks a crooked grin. “Didn’t mean to scare ya,” he says, but he looks hardly contrite.

“I wasn’t _scared_ ,” you reply defensively. “You just surprised me.”

McCree looks past you to the shower stall. “I was thinking of taking a quick shower. Feelin’ mighty warm and kinda sleepy. Shower’ll wake me right up.” A half-second pause and his eyes flick down to your face. “Would you care to join me, sweetheart?”

You feel as if your cheeks might catch fire from the heat they are putting out. Is he being serious? Judging from the way he glances at your lips and wets his own, he’s serious. The thought of sharing a hot, steamy, _naked_ shower with McCree has your heart dancing a little jig in your throat.

“O-Oh. Um. I don’t think there’s enough room for both of us,” you say, waving a hand in the air, feigning nonchalance. “I can leave if --”

“No, stay,” interrupts McCree, looking suddenly anxious that he’s insulted you with his teasing. “It’ll only take me a minute’r two. Stay.” His eyes are so pleading and sincere that you just can’t turn him down. And a big part of you doesn’t want to leave anyway. With a playful roll of your eyes, you push past him and out of the bathroom.

“Alright, alright, don’t give me those puppy eyes,” you say, glancing at him over your shoulder. “I won’t go anywhere. But you better hurry up.”

Grinning bigger than a kid in a candy store, McCree begins clumsily tugging his shirt up and over his head, and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water follows shortly after.

Left alone in McCree’s room and practically vibrating with nervous energy, you take a moment to straighten things up, attempting to distract yourself from your own thoughts. You smooth out the rumpled bedsheets and dump a few of the empty bottles in the chute all the dormitories have for recyclables. You fold his discarded poncho and place it in the dresser, as well as his discarded jeans. You carefully touch the banjo lying on the desk and you wonder when last he played it. Maybe he’ll play for you if you ask.

When you’re done, the place looks much less like a disaster area. But you’re still twitching with apprehension and Jesse is still in the shower.

For a moment you stand outside the bathroom door, listening to the sound of the shower running and McCree’s quiet, musical humming and you try not to picture a naked McCree soaping himself beneath the stream of hot water. You fail spectacularly. So caught up in the wonderful fantasy of McCree’s shower are you that you completely neglect to hear the water shut off.

Suddenly, the bathroom door whooshes open and Jesse McCree stands there before you, glistening with moisture and holding an unacceptably small white towel around his waist. Having never seen him even shirtless, the unexpected appearance of him practically -- scratch that, _completely_ \-- naked steals the breath from your lungs. He has freckles peppered across his entire body from what you can tell, and that’s not all. There are scars, bullet holes and old knife wounds, criss-crossing across his upper body. Hair covers his chest in chestnut curls and tapers into a trail that guides your gaze across his stomach and down past his navel. The path disappears beneath the white towel held around his hips.

You bite your lower lip, tearing your gaze away from the treasure trail and looking him in the eye.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” says McCree, that same insufferable grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turns his back to you and retrieves a comb from a cup beside the sink. You take the moment to continue your remorseless ogling while he inspects himself in the mirror. If he’s going to put on a show, you’re certainly not going to pass up the opportunity to enjoy it.

There’s an extra large scar on his left shoulder blade. It looks like bullet wounds, but more than one. Your fingers twitch, itching to reach out and touch it.

Jesse turns back to face you, hand keeping his towel around his hips, and drags the comb through his wet hair, pushing it away from his face. The musky scent of his body wash fills the air of the tiny dormitory. He returns the comb to the cup and flashes you a grin.

You suddenly find yourself moving towards him, closing the distance between you.

Jesse watches you, eyes half-lidded yet cautious, expression no longer playful but intent, as your hands rest against his cool and damp chest. Your fingertips trace feather light across his scars, forging invisible paths along the pale, marred skin. You feel his pulse quicken at your touch. Out of the corner of your eye you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Do they hurt?” you ask quietly. Your eyes are following the path your fingertips draw, but his eyes are transfixed on your face. You pretend you don’t notice, but your cheeks grow pinker. You sidle closer, step by small step, until your chest brushes against his.

“...Nah.”

Your fingertips travel slowly up to his collarbone and down his arm, until you reach metal.

“And this?”

Jesse hesitates for a moment and bends his arm, flexing his mechanical fingers as your hand moves slowly, tenderly, across the metal appendage. “Sometimes,” he admits, his voice quiet.

You run your palms along his metal arm, slowly guiding the artificial appendage around your waist. You lift your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are warm, expectant, searching. Waiting for the answer to an unspoken question. Your heart pounding like a kettledrum in your throat, you lean up on your tiptoes and kiss him.

McCree responds in kind, his mechanical arm tightening around your waist and drawing you even closer against him. His lips are warm and impossibly soft, with just a subtle burn from the whiskey, and move with practiced ease against your own. You fail to notice that his intact hand is no longer holding his towel closed until it’s sliding up your neck and tangling in your hair.

There’s a soft thump as the towel falls to the floor and pools at his feet.

Startled by the realization of what the sound was, you pull back, only an inch or two, to look him in the eye. He’s smirking again, lips curled ever so slightly, waiting for your response.

“You’re such an ass, Jesse McCree,” you say, leaning up to steal another kiss, and wrapping your arms around his waist.

McCree chuckles against your lips, and begins guiding you backward towards his bed. He turns his back to it, and when the backs of his calves touch the bed, he falls backward onto the mattress and pulls you down atop him. Your mouths meet again in a desperate fervor, and now McCree’s hands are free to travel. And travel they do. They slide slowly down either side of your torso, before finally settling on the curve of your backside. He squeezes your ass, groaning softly against your lips. You pull away with a gasp, lifting your head to look him in the eye.

“Mighty juicy back there, darlin’,” McCree says with a playful grin.

Two can play at this game. Distracting him with another kiss, you sneak a hand down to his already stiff cock and caress the hard shaft with light fingertips. Jesse moans sharply, head falling back against the pillows as you tease and fondle him until he’s practically whimpering with desire. His eyes close, and as your onslaught continues, he bucks helplessly against you, cock caressing your inner thigh.

“Look who’s juicy now,” you say, almost purring as you watch the tip of his cock glisten with a perfect pearly bead of clear fluid. You resist the urge to lick it away. Smirking, you push yourself into an upright position, straddling his thighs. His stiff cock presses against your lower belly.

“You sure are a cocktease, sweetheart,” Jesse whines, opening his eyes. His gaze is desperate. “C’mon, now, this ain’t hardly fair.”

You rather like the sight of him melting into putty before your eyes. Now it’s your turn to smirk. “How about this to even the playing field?” you ask, and pull your shirt up over your head. It joins the discarded towel on the floor, and you give him a moment to witness you in your topless glory. Although your face burns with embarrassment, he lets you a low, appreciative whistle.

McCree’s expression turns positively wolfish. His hands move across your thighs and up towards your hips, coming to a rest just below your rib cage. Goosebumps chase his touch.

“You look good enough t'eat, sweetness,” he says, the words coming out almost as a growl. “Now come down here and let the big bad wolf get a taste.”

“Does that make me a defenseless sheep?” you ask, smirking down at him.

“Sheep in wolf’s clothin’, maybe,” McCree says, pulling himself into a sitting position to bring his mouth to your neck.

“That’s not how it goes,” you chuckle, and he tickles your neck with his laughter in return. Your hand threads through his still-damp hair and fists at the nape of his neck. As his mouth worships your neck and shoulder, his hands deftly unclasp your bra. It's thrown somewhere and promptly forgotten. You pull firmly on his hair, removing his lips from your neck and tilting his face up towards yours. For a moment, you just study his features, your fingertips rasping against his perpetual stubble that borders his jaw and cheek.

With a husky sigh, McCree turns his head and presses his lips against your palm. His breath is hot against your skin. “Shit, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, partially muffled by your hand, and your heart leaps into your throat. His gaze meets yours, and for a moment you can’t breathe from the sincerity in his expression.

“Shut your mouth, Jesse McCree,” you say, knowing that you lack conviction in your voice, and before he disobey you by speaking, you capture his lips in a fierce kiss, pushing him down against the bed once more.

McCree’s hands take up the exploration of your body again, slipping beneath the waistband of your jeans while his mouth has you distracted. For a few brief yet magnificent moments, McCree massages the curve of your ass, squeezing each cheek with his strong hands. Eventually, his stroking becomes more insistent, and it’s obvious what he’s after. With some careful maneuvering, your jeans join the rest of your clothes on the floor.

You sit astride his hips now in only your black undies, and your whole body blushes. His eyes wander hungrily across your exposed flesh, and a muscle in his jaw jumps as he drinks you in. You can feel the solid warmth of McCree’s stiff cock pressing against you, and a thrill chases up your spine. This is real. This is really real and it’s really happening. Your thoughts, although still affected by the whiskey, clarify. You have never wanted anything more than this moment. To be here, with him, preparing to ride him into the sunset and beyond. Part of you barely even believes it’s happening.

McCree’s tears his gaze from your body to look you in the face, eyes half-lidded. He strokes your bare thighs, a slightly lopsided smile curving his lips. God, but he’s handsome.

“Everythin’ alright, darlin’?” he asks, voice rough with desire.

“Just remembering that day we reconned through New Mexico,” you say, curling your fingers in his chest hair. “I couldn’t stop staring at you.”

“I knew it,”  he says with a self-satisfied smile. “I knew you were eyeballin’ me that whole time. Wanna know a secret?” He beckons you closer with one finger.

You lean down.

“I couldn’t stop starin’ either,” he says, and the huskiness of his voice sends ripples of goosebumps shivering across your skin.

You turn your head slightly to capture his lips and his hands seek the curve of your ass once more, squeezing and kneading until a moan escapes your lips. You withdraw a little to gain your breath. Jesse’s hands continue their very important work, and now his fingers and getting closer to that place that makes your toes curl. With some coaxing, he pulls you up onto your hands and knees, hovering above him, and the fingers of his mechanical hand find the wetness soaking the crotch of your panties.

He makes an appreciative sound as he rubs you through the flimsy fabric, his strokes growing stronger and faster as he goes. You swear his fingers are vibrating. His thumb pulls your panties aside and a finger delves inside your waiting slickness, and then another finger joins the first. You rock against his hand as he pumps his fingers deep, and now you’re certain of it: his fingers are vibrating ever so slightly inside you. You tremble and gasp under his caresses, distracted completely, until his mouth connects with your nipple and your moan takes you by surprise. His tongue moves around the hardened peak of your breast and your fist in the sheets.

McCree is merciless as he touches your most sensitive areas with hands and mouth, driving your pleasure headlong into the abyss. When you stifle a cry of pleasure and your thighs tense around his fingers, his voice whispers in your ear.

“Come for me, darlin’, lemme hear you.”

With a shaky moan, the pleasure overtakes you and you’re momentarily rendered powerless by the sensations rippling through you. Jesse’s fingers slow to the pulse of your orgasm, allowing you to ride the waves until they peter out. With a sigh, you practically collapse atop him, breathing hard and bracing yourself on one shaky elbow to keep from crushing him.

McCree’s chuckle vibrates through your chest as both of his hands massage your back and sides.

“Mm, mighty nice seein’ you like this, sweetheart,” he says, giving your ass a firm slap and squeeze.

A moment later and you’ve recovered enough to speak. You push yourself up onto all fours and look him in the eye.

“I think it’s your turn now,” you say, and his expression becomes considerably less smug. Before he can protest, however, you take his stiff cock in hand and give it a slow pump.

He groans your name through clenched teeth as his head drops back onto the pillow. Smirking triumphantly, you forge a roaming trail of kisses down his chest across his stomach, over his hips, and all the while your hand teases his cock with light touches and strokes. When you arrive at your destination, you pause.

“Look at me, Jesse,” you say, and he lifts his head. Expression practically _tortured_ , McCree watches helplessly as you drag your tongue in a wide, broad stroke, from the base of his cock to the very tip. The sounds he makes -- the helpless, trembling moans of a man unmade -- has pleasure stirring deep within your belly. When you take him fully in your mouth after minutes of teasing, McCree’s breath grows ragged and his hand buries itself in your hair.

“Fu-fuck, darlin’,” he whispers as your mouth and tongue drive him towards the precipice. “You keep that up ‘n’ I’m not gonna last.”

“Mmm…” You pull your mouth from his cock and instead stroke it, watching his face as you squeeze it lightly. “I'm not hearing a problem…” You give the underside of his cock another slow, torturous lick and McCree’s moans raise in volume.

“Shit,” says McCree in a shaky voice and his fingers curl in your hair. “C’mon, now… Ain't got the patience for this teasin’.”

So of course you continue to tease him with your hands and mouth until he’s unable to properly speak. Wordless gasps and moans of pleasure escape him at regular intervals now, and you finally decide to end his torment. You push yourself up on all fours and crawl up the length of his body until his mouth is within inches of yours.

“Mm, why hello there, sugar,” he says, watching you through half-lidded eyes with the laziest smile ever curving his lips.

His hands immediately rest on your hips as you kiss him, eliciting the subtlest of groans from deep within his chest. He hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them to the side. You lean forward, bracing your weight on your hands pressed against the mattress, and McCree takes his cock in hand. There’s a brief moment of fumbling as the head slips against your slickness, before he slides home.

“Shit,” he whispers, watching as you adjust your position until he is full hilted within you. “Mm, fuck, you feel so fuckin’ good, sweetness.”

“You got a dirty mouth, Jesse,” you say with a little smile, leaning forward to kiss him again, and that’s when he starts moving.

The pace starts slow, and it seems that he’s content to simply watch you bounce atop him, his hands exploring and conquering every inch of your skin he can reach. You rock against each other at a languid, lazy pace, unhurried, stealing kisses between pleasured gasps. You watch each others’ faces with mutual fascination.  Jesse wets his lips, you lick your own instinctively. He pulls you close, arms wrapping around your waist, and the pace picks up speed. You brace yourself against the mattress, and his mouth is at your breasts again, adding another layer to the pleasure.

“Fuck,” you gasp, arching as his cock hits that place within you that makes you see stars. After all the teasing, it takes little to bring you to the edge again, and McCree is doing way more than a little. All too soon you feel the pleasure cresting, and your leg has already begun to spasm. McCree is there with you, chasing you towards the edge.

“Come for me, sugar,” he moans, for a second time, burying his face in your cleavage as your arms fail to support you and your second orgasm rocks you to your core. You cry out, hips stuttering as his thrusts bring you to completion. As the last vestiges of your pleasure ebb, McCree slips out from inside you and with a quiet, satisfied groan, spills his seed over his stomach and chest.

Breathing hard, you sit upright, astride his thighs, and suddenly become overwhelmed with insecurity. Your face flushes crimson, you cover your naked breasts with your arms, and shift to get off him.

“Hey, hey,” he says, sitting up and keeping you in place. He presses a tender kiss to your forehead and that eases your anxiety a little. “What’s the rush? Where you goin’?”

Butterflies flitter in your stomach at his touch. “I don’t know,” you admit sheepishly, and breathe out a laugh in spite of yourself.

“Well, I was hopin’ you’d… you’d stay,” he says, and his own cheeks reddening. “Y’know, with me. Tonight. I-If y’wanted to.” He pats the bed, smiling invitingly. “Plenty of room. And I promise I don’t snore.”

How could you turn down that face? You smile and nod, and he leans in to plant a swift kiss on your lips. Grinning, he pulls you down onto the bed and rolls you onto your back. He’s atop you now, mouth lazily kissing your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, your lips. Whether done on purpose or simply because he can’t resist you, he eases your anxious thoughts with his hands and lips and you melt into the sheets, content and very sleepy. Your hands reach down and grasp his backside, squeezing gleefully, and he smirks against your mouth.

“Hold that thought, sugar,” he says at long last, even though it seems he’s loathe to leave your side as he can’t seem to stop kissing you. After the fourth time he pretends to leave only to immediately seek your mouth yet again, you burst into giggles and he finally pulls himself away with a sheepish grin.

He disappears into the bathroom and the door whooshes closed behind him. Though your body is tired, your mind is wide awake with adrenaline. You fidget, and pull the rumpled comforter over your bare legs. You wait.

The bathroom door opens once again and McCree reappears, wiping his stomach with a wet wipe. Your gaze wanders his nude form appreciatively as he stands there, cleaning himself off. Subconsciously you wet your lips.

“You’re starin’ again, sweetheart,” he says, smirking as he cleans his cock with the wet wipe. Part of you knows he’s doing this on purpose, just to tease you.

“You’re the one putting on a show,” you say, blushing.

He tosses the used wipe in the garbage can and approaches the bed. “Well, I live t’please,” he says, crawling on all fours towards you like a feral beast. The heated look he gives you makes your heart hammer in your chest. You’re certain he can hear it knocking on your ribs.

“You’ve done a very good job of pleasing me,” you say as he draws nearer and kisses you again; your lips tingle from the overstimulation. He simply cannot get enough of you.

“Who said I’m done pleasin’ you?” he says, and his voice is a low growl in your ear.

“Mm…” is all you can manage, half-sighing the contented response. Your adrenaline is finally ebbing, leaving you feeling suddenly drained. Jesse chuckles softly and twitches aside the comforter to slip beneath it alongside you. He draws you into his arms, cocooning you against his chest and tucking your head beneath his chin.

“Seems like the pleasin’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow,” he says, but you barely hear him. You are warm and spent and Jesse McCree’s arms are more comfortable than any bed. Sleep has already begun to claim you, and it isn’t long before you slip into a peaceful slumber, the sound of his rhythmic heartbeat as your lullaby.

You come to consciousness slowly the next morning. Your eyes flutter open, you yawn and stretch. The alarm clock on the night stand reads 7:32 am. Sunlight filters through the closed curtains of McCree’s only window.

And there’s the man himself. Laying on his side facing you, snoring quietly with every second deep breath. His hair and beard are tousled, both sticking out at odd angles. You can’t remember the last time you saw his face look so peaceful. You don’t want to disturb him but you simply cannot resist.

You reach out and gently brush the backs of your fingers against his cheekbone. He makes a quiet, appreciative sound and in his sleep and pulls you into his arms. With a contented sigh, he buries his face against your neck and immediately resumes snoring. Somehow louder this time. You let him sleep there for a time, face pressed against your breast, arms wrapped around your waist. You play idly with his hair. But then you realize.

You _really_ need to pee.

As gently as possible, you extricate yourself from his sleepy embrace. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _‘you know what time it is_ ’ and hugs his pillow with a sigh. Smirking, you tip toe to the bathroom. Alone, you relieve yourself, wash your hands, and look yourself over in the mirror. Your hair's a complete mess, and there are dark hickeys on your neck, shoulders, and upper breasts. You have no idea where your bra went. You’re looking a little rough, overall. And yet you’ve somehow never felt better. You smile as you run your fingers through your hair to tame it. In lieu of a toothbrush you take sip of mouthwash, slosh it around for a minute or two, and spit it out.

You exit the bathroom as quietly as you entered, but there’s no need. The holoscreen is on now, and a disinterested meteorologist drones on about the morning weather to the viewers at home.

Stretched languidly across the bed, head pillowed on his folded and tucked arms, the comforter covering _very_ little of him, McCree looks away from the television and gives you a sleepy grin.

“Good mornin’, sugar,” he says, half-yawning. “Mm, you’re beautiful.”

Your whole body flushes and you grab the bottom hem of the comforter and then crawl underneath it towards him. “You just like watching me go red, Jesse McCree,” you say, muffled by the blanket as you crawl. And he does, too, damn him.

“But that’s just ‘cause you’re so cute when y’blush, baby,” he says with a short laugh, and pulls the comforter over his own head so he can see your blushing face, despite trying to hide it from him. He coaxes you onto your back and wriggles low enough to rest his head on your bare breasts. His arms tight around your waist, he half-moans a contented sigh, he settles there contentedly. “Shit, I’d love some breakfast but I’m just so damn comfortable.” You can feel him grinning.

“I’ll give you five more minutes of free pillow service, then I’ll have to start charging you.”

“Mm… What if I need an hour?”

“I’m afraid the price for that is pretty high,” you say, in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Name it.”

You think for a moment, looking around his room for inspiration. Then it hits you. “Play something for me on your banjo.”

“Aw, no,” he says, lifting his head a little to look you in the eye. He looks mortified, his cheeks practically glowing and his nose wrinkled. “ _Really?_ ”

“And I’m going to need some singing to go along with that, too…” you say airily, toying with his mussed beard.

With a defeated groan, McCree drops his head back to your breast. “Fine, y’got a deal,” he mumbles. “Now no more movin’, darlin’, I intend t’get my money’s worth out of you.” He turns his head, kisses the valley between your breasts, and resettles against you.

“Deal.”


End file.
